


Gift Wrapped

by LadyAJ_13



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, During Canon, Multi, POV Neal Caffrey, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Protective Neal Caffrey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27896443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: The only thing more idiotic than a known felon staking out an FBI holiday party would be a known felon infiltrating an FBI holiday party. Hence the cheese salad sandwich, dark clothing, and sightline through the skylight.
Relationships: Elizabeth Burke/Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey, Neal Caffrey/Kate Moreau
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	Gift Wrapped

Neal takes a bite of his cheese salad sandwich, looking with envy at the tables of treats spread out below.

It’s his own fault, of course. It’s stupid to even be here - a stance he’d vehemently argued against with Mozzie and Kate, despite knowing how right they were. But somehow… it just felt necessary. 

The only thing more idiotic than a known felon staking out an FBI holiday party, however, would be a known felon infiltrating an FBI holiday party. Hence the cheese salad sandwich, dark clothing, and sightline through the skylight rather than a fancy suit and Kate on his arm in something slinky. No, he gets a packet of cigarettes and a chef’s jacket - Mozzie’s last-minute back-up plan - while the lawmen get the champagne.

Okay, so it’s probably Prosecco knowing suits.

The hall below is starting to fill up. It’s beautiful, classy; black tie and twinkling lights, a Christmas for the 1% rather than cheesy music and gag gifts. It’s nothing like what he thought a load of feds would pull out, but maybe they had a good year catching hard-working crooks like himself. Not Peter Burke, of course. He spent his time chasing a shadow, a whisper; a wink and the tilt of a grin.

That had been a good one. Letting Burke get close enough to meet his eye, knowing he’d never get close enough to catch. 

Most of the attendees don’t quite fit the bill. The women are in cocktail dresses rather than the floor length gowns appropriate to the venue; some look uncomfortable, more used to a gun on their hip than high heels. The men wear suits of course, mostly tuxedos to mark the occasion over their usual office wear. Shoes are shined and hair is brushed, but nothing can disguise the way the fabric hangs where it should curve, and bulges where it should skim. He’d bet his last haul that at least ninety per cent of the tuxes have been hired, and the other ten dragged from the back of dusty cupboards.

One woman though. She catches his attention as soon as she steps into the room. Her dress is a knock-out, from the colour - a high-end merlot catching sunlight - to the cut, which teases and hints instead of advertising. He drags his eyes up and swallows a gasp. It’s Elizabeth Burke. And that means - yes, the man at her side is the thorn in his.

Well. Not a thorn, exactly. 

He worked out ages ago that Elizabeth Burke was off limits. He can play with Peter - give him the slip, and lead him up blind alleys - and the agent even seems to  _ enjoy  _ that on some level, which works nicely because Neal likes showing off and Burke sees how clever he is and redoubles his efforts, the little shake of his head not quite hiding his pleased smirk. But if he was ever to turn his attention to Elizabeth… well. That would be game over.

He gets it. She gives even Kate a run for her money in that dress, but she doesn’t hang on Burke’s arm. If anything, he’d say he was hanging on hers, following her lead through the room full of his colleagues. She whispers in his ear, and a second later they’re swaying to the music. Who knew Burke had moves?

He’d like to be down there right now. He’d twirl Kate across the floor; enough spin to dazzle, not enough to be vulgar, or flashy - and when he was within arms reach he’d have Kate ask to switch partners. Burke wouldn’t be able to say no, too tied to social convention, too wrong-footed, and then he’d get to dance with Elizabeth. He’d get to find out what perfume she wears, and whether she shares Burke’s secret smiles and sharp mind.

He’d get to see Kate in the arms of the man that follows them, too - the only one who’s ever made him feel chased rather than pursued. She’d look beautiful cradled in that strong hold, the thrill of a time-limited capture, safely returned to him when the cellos mourned their last note.

Footsteps.

He sinks into the shadows, one hand resting lightly on the cigarette packet. But he’d rather not be seen at all, and he’s good at hiding, good at being quiet and still when he needs to be. The footsteps come closer, then a scratch of spare gravel and a thump. He edges a glance around his chimney.

Shit. 

That's no staff member taking an unauthorised break. It’s no partygoer, looking for a quiet corner with a pilfered bottle and a partner best kept on the down low. He’d rather sit and endure an awkward bout of ill-advised sex voyeurism than this. Because his rooftop companion is dressed all in black, but he’s not carrying a sandwich and a flask of tea. He’s carrying a gun. It even has a little stand, and he’s peering through the old, slightly warped glass of the skylight and calculating angles and - if Neal doesn't do something, there’s going to be one less FBI agent very soon. Possibly many less.

Normally… well, being a fed’s a dangerous job and it’s nothing to do with him, and fewer people upholding the law makes his life easier. But  _ Peter’s _ down there. The thought is like a spasm in his gut, rocketing him to his feet, and - well, fuck it. It’s Christmas.

He creeps from his hiding place and delivers a swift kick to the head. The gunman is only dazed, so he follows it up with another, grateful for his heavy boots and the element of surprise - fighting isn’t his forte - then one more, quick and sharp in the gut. The man doesn’t try to block it. He risks dropping to his knees, and peers closely through the darkness.

Out cold.

Thank God.

Still breathing though, which is probably for the best.

He glances down at the happily dancing couples, so unaware. He knew the security here wasn’t fool proof, but two spectres on the roof is downright shoddy. His eyes follow Elizabeth Burke, a vision in red, and the man at her side. They could have been gunned down. 

His fingers twitch. He needs to teach these lawmen a lesson.

He rifles through his pockets. He’s unprepared, but finds a biro and a spare piece of card, lifted from a fancy hotel, that’ll do. After a moment’s thought - and a brief fantasy of teasing Peter, of complimenting Elizabeth - he pens a generically sarcastic  _ Merry Christmas, FBI,  _ following it up with a grin and a _ N.C. x. _

He raids the gunman for his shoelaces and uses one to tie the note to the gun. With the other he binds the man’s hands behind him. He rips the chef’s jacket into pieces and wraps large, obnoxious bows around his feet and neck, then one more over the tie at his wrists as well, for good measure. It won’t hold him for long - Neal would be out of the whole lot in seconds - but hopefully he won’t have the chance. 

He packs his tea flask back in his backpack, then secures the straps. He’ll have to move fast. 

He takes the gun in gloved hands and unloads it, letting the bullets drop like pebbles around the man’s feet. Then he jabs the butt against the skylight. The glass is old, weak, and splinters instantly, slicing stars falling like glitter. A beautiful, dangerous rain.

The cops dart for cover, and he thrusts the gun through the hole. He pauses. He shouldn’t. There’s no time for sentiment. No time to check and make sure the Burkes are safe. He makes his fingers uncurl.

By the time the gun hits the floor, he’s on the next rooftop over, then running and sliding down the fire escape. Back at street level, he pulls a light grey peacoat from a stash behind a dustbin and shrugs it on, sauntering away.

Hughes crooks his two fingers, the gesture in no way diluted by the wife hovering at his elbow or the suit that looks older than Elizabeth. 

“N.C., Burke? That who I think it is?”

He takes the note, already sealed in a clear evidence envelope. Despite the plastic, he knows the note will be slightly rough to the touch, in the way that expensive card often is. But the handwriting’s wrong, it looks like a fancy invitation except done in biro, and why was it tied to a gun? Caffrey’s never shown an interest in weapons before - it’s one of the things he likes most about him. Dropping a semi-automatic on an FBI Christmas party is certainly out of character, and it sparks just a whisper of doubt. “Given we know for a fact Caffrey stayed at this hotel several weeks ago… we should assume yes, as a working theory.”

“You do know you’re meant to be surveilling him, not the other way round?”

“There was a notice of this party in the society pages,” El says, taking his arm. “Anyone could have found it.”

There’s a commotion by the stairwell door, and then three agents burst through. Between them, they just about hold up a man dressed all in black. His heart almost stops, but then his eyes catch up and he notes the slight paunch, the thick-set arms, the mousy hair. The agents trek him through the room, out to a waiting car, and as he passes Peter sees the handcuffs surrounding wrists tied with white cotton, finished in an elaborate bow.

“Looks like anyone did,” he murmurs, relief and realisation spreading through him like a wave of warmth. Neal’s not gone rogue - or more rogue, he should say - the bow and the note are him, his art, but the gun  _ isn’t _ . This is some odd little rescue mission, a hero complex, and that fits better with what he knows of Neal than guns and intimidation and the firing of a bullet through his head. He’s not stupid enough to say they were lucky Neal was there - the last thing he needs is his light-fingered master forger turning vigilante in his spare time - but Hughes raises an eyebrow like it came across anyway.

“Get out of here Burke. Take your wife home. But first thing tomorrow - my office.”

  
  


**_Six Years Later_ **

Neal follows Peter through the Burke’s front door. The case had wrapped early, and with Christmas on the horizon they’d taken the break where they could get it and headed home early. Or at least, most of the agents had. Neal had followed Peter to his car, daring him to say something as he buckled the belt and fiddled with the radio.

Peter hadn’t said anything. He also hadn’t pulled up outside June’s place, or asked where Neal wanted to go.

They’ve been tiptoeing around this for months now. Years, probably, if he’s being truthful - but it’s different now, it’s  _ real,  _ and he  _ knows  _ Peter, and maybe it’s the glow of the lights on the tree but it feels like a time when something could happen. Wishes could come true. He stifles a snort at his own corniness.

“You want a drink?”

He nods. Peter has discarded his suit jacket over the back of the sofa, and he runs his fingers over the fabric, still warm with body heat. He realises what he’s doing and snatches his hand away.

It had been so easy, in the office, to follow Peter out. He does it a hundred times a year. So easy to slip into the car and let Peter take him where he wanted to go. But here, in this house that he’d call a home if he was allowed that appellation, he freezes. He’s used to gambling. He likes it; the rush, the reliance on wits, charm, and a healthy dose of luck. But he’s not just gambling himself here. It’s Peter, his happiness and career. And it’s El, her home, her husband, her life. 

He can just have a drink. A Christmas tipple and he’ll be on his way. 

He turns the radio to something soft and classical while Peter disappears into the kitchen. A box sits next to it, and he nudges it curiously, then lifts the lid. It seems to be a collection of keepsakes. He shouldn’t look, but if he’s honest, he could do with a few reminders of the happy Burke household; why he shouldn’t corner Peter and break the flimsy wall between them, knowing as soon as it splinters there’ll be no going back.

Except… the first item in the box is a silken tie. The second, a still from a security camera. He knows from Peter’s stories that this - this frozen image of him in a mailman uniform and a baseball cap - was the first time Peter had a face to a name. He pulls the box out, sinking to sit on the sofa. This is all him. A lollipop. A stack of Caffrey-original drawn cards. A sugar cookie, forever preserved in it’s plastic.

It’s a box of Neal.

His fingers close around a square of card, elegant calligraphy in cheap ink. He pulls it out just as Peter enters the room with a beer and a glass of wine. 

“You kept it!” he can’t help crowing. He never told Kate or Mozzie what really happened that night, just rocked up back to the apartment and shrugged at their questions. Because it felt right, in a way that was very wrong, to save a roomful of people - agents. It was his shining moment, and one he’s kept locked up inside. “It wasn’t evidence?”

“It was,” Peter says, freezing. He eyes the card, with it’s embossed hotel logo, then, being adorably evasive, passes over the wine and takes a seat. “But Paul Andrews - the gunman - was a quick case. Open and shut.”

“All neatly tied up?”

Peter rolls his eyes, and Neal lets loose a pleased grin. 

“So evidence could be returned to the owners…” he runs his finger along the edge of the card. It’s lightly furred with time and wear, soft against the pad. “You know, I addressed this to the FBI, not you, Peter.”

“Believe it or not, no one else wanted it.”

“But you did?”

“It’s rude to return a present.” 

He can’t think what to say to that, so he sips in silence, and watches Peter from beneath his lashes. 

“It was all an accident, wasn’t it?”

“Hmm?”

“There were some in the bureau who thought you were obsessed with me. Tracking me there. Delivering me a dangerous criminal, an easy win to make up for all the fruitless chases.”

It’s a half truth. There’s a part of Neal that  _ is  _ obsessed, even now, a part that can never quite get enough. It’s why he’s sitting on a couch in Brooklyn drinking supermarket wine, instead of flirting the night away in an upscale Manhattan bar. It’s why he’s not quite able to gamble on this, but needs some kind of sign. Some reassurance it will all work out.

“What do you think?”

“I think it was a case of right place, right time. If you’d planned it, you’d have brought ribbon, wrapping paper and a fancier pen.”

Neal laughs. “I would,” he concedes, glancing at the biro standing out cheap and foreign on the elegant paper. “The ribbon at least. I didn’t even have a tie, now that would have at least been kinky.”

Peter shifts like he can’t get comfortable, and Neal suddenly recalls the tie in the box. He can’t remember it. Was it part of some disguise, some evasion back during the chase? Peter swigs quickly from his beer, and Neal watches his throat work, catching his gaze when he lowers the bottle. 

“I almost put another note on the back,” he says huskily. “Elizabeth looked beautiful that night, in that gown. She eclipsed every woman in the room. Every woman in New York. Couldn't hold a candle.”

Peter swallows. 

“Of course, her date helped. He was perfect.”

“Why didn’t you?” Peter’s voice is unrecognisable; quiet and gravelled. It kicks Neal’s pulse up a notch. “Add a note?”

“She was off limits.”

“You used to send me birthday cards. You sent an anniversary card.”

“Yeah, you. Not Elizabeth. You didn’t want me near her.”

“Neal,” Peter says. He clears his throat, edging back into daytime territory and it’s a comfort and a loss all at once. “You sent me a card for the anniversary of the day I married El. You sent it to my home address, where El lives.”

“Unintended error?” he tries. It’s a lie. He was pushing his luck even then, he knew it. But he wanted into all areas of Peter’s life, like Peter seeped into all areas of his, wanted to leave his fingerprints all over their routines and conversations and daily chores. But he never wanted to scare her. Either of them.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

That - that’s unexpected. Peter had warned him off the first time he came here after all, when their deal was already in place, when he’d mostly done his time, when he was caught and tagged and neutered - even then, she had been off limits. And now he’s been granted a retrospective reprieve. 

“Is she still off limits?”

Peter looks at him. For once, he can’t tell what he's thinking; it’s a rush like poker, the bets already laid and everything coming down to the final call. The fall of the cards. Yes or no. Win or lose.

“She’ll be home in half an hour. Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

It’s said with a twist of the lips, a smirk that says he might like the answer. They’ve talked about it. About him. Maybe it was all strictly business, the honest communication of a solid marriage. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he found his way into their lives after all, into their secrets, their fantasies, their nights as well as days. He smiles, and relaxes at the grin he gets back.

“Maybe I will.”


End file.
